Seven
by elissa echo
Summary: Pride. Gluttony. Envy. Avarice. Sloth. Lust. Anger. Draco x Blaise


**Notes**: Undoubtedly one of my favourites that I've written. A 'collection,' if you will, of 7 drabbles--one for each of the 7 deadly sins. I don't care what the ffNET word counter says--it is 700 words on the nose.  
  
**Warnings**: Slash.

**seven.**

**(pride)**

Ravenclaw, thought Zabini, Blaise, mocha hair, not coolmessy but lazymessy, falling into his face. Ravenclaw.

No. You can think, but you possess too much ambition. A malleable mind to mould. You will be a valuable asset to SLYTHERIN!

Ears ringing with out-of-tune bells, Zabini, Blaise stepped down, carefully watching the pale dark olive reactions of his surroundings.

Porcelain out of the corner of his eye. A slow curvesneersmirk stretching the too-thin face over high cheekbones. Pointed chin, all angles. Welcome.

After a moment, Blaise's lips curvesneersmirked right back, blue eyes glimmering violet for a split second under the garish light.  
  
**(gluttony)**

Blaise watches all the time. They know. He knows that they know. And so on.

At breakfast, eggs and toast and Earl Grey Tea, he watches. One hand reaches for sausage, another for the bacon. Disgust reigns and he watches no more.

Except for one, delicate whiplash elegance.

Arched brow, arrogance ruling over dignityloyaltymorality. Post.

Package from home, green wax serpent seal. Ruddy chubby hands reach in eagerly and pull out sweet after sweet. Honeydukes' chocolate, Fizzing Whizbees _(gentle euphoria mirrored only by measures of flesh)_, Bertie Botts, special dark chocolate orange.

Blaise expects they do not taste the orange.  
  
**(envy)**

Final scores come in and Blaise is beaten by Draco in every subject, the unspoken challenge laughing mockingly at Blaise.

Summer is hothumidsticky. Blaise spends hours outside, reading page after page of auxiliary information he will never need. Dust is blown off the cover of dragonhide-bound tomes, coating several blades of grass with a fine _(ever so slight)_ sheen.

When no more can be done, Blaise reclines in the green green green grass, prickly on his bare arms and calves and neck, and looks at the sky vowing one thing only.

Draco will never beat him again.

And he doesn't.  
  
**(avarice)**

Yellow is the default colour of the sun, reflecting its rays off the toomuchgel head of Draco. Blaise notices this a lot back at school.

Just like he notices Pansy Parkinson _(cow)_ batting her lashes and laughing a little too much at Draco and his jokes. He's not that funny.

He lets her hang on his arm, an unnatural growth, and he smiles too brightly, teeth even whiter than skin.

One night, clock striking midnight, he comes down and sits next to Blaise on the plush sofa, silent and intense.

Blaise wants and wants and wants, but does not admit.  
  
**(sloth)**

Goyle, his voice commands, fetch me my school bag, will you?

Crabbe, there's a bottle of firewhisky in my trunk. Bring it out.

Do you ever do anything for yourself? Raised brow, inquiring stare.

Need I? Condescending sneer, cold grey mirrors reflecting and never revealing.

Blaise understands his words and does not comment after that. Pansy _(she's just a decoration)_ helps him lengthen his robes because they're too short. She probably undressed him. White-hot anger bubbles through veins _(can't even do that for himself)._

Blaise thinks Draco would look attractive _(stunning beautiful Greek perfection)_ in periwinkle. Or nothing at all.  
  
**(lust)**

Legs entwine, bronze and ivory merge against blue silk. Wet and warm, soft and hard and _oh_, he's still all angles and smooth planes.

Lips of coral flushing darker, grey morphing into a storm of emotions Blaise never wants to decipher. Just _needfeeltouch._

His voice is Vivaldi's Four Seasons, every mix of blinding _(don't resist)_ emotion available to human perception.

Blaise lifts Draco's head off the ground _(extra sharp jerk; gasp moan oh yes beg me)_. Lowering 'til lips nearly touch, eyes wide open, whispers, I like your face when you come.

Kiss _(bite)_, stroke _(you want it)_, come _(yes)._  
  
**(anger)** If Blaise were female, he would do exactly what Pansy Parkinson _(slut)_ is doing right now.

Her legs wrap around his waist, encompassing him and pulling him deeper. Only when Pansy leaves does Draco acknowledge him, curvesneersmirk tugging at his lips.

What is it, Zabini? Can't face what a real bloke does?

Fuck you, he shoots back, liquidated fire blood.

Been there, done that.

Blaise shoves him brutally against the granite _(submit)_. Trousers open. He's so heavy in his mouth.

Draco comes _(bitter paroxysm of pleasure)_ and Blaise leaves.

Ten perfect bruises are already forming on Draco's hips.

He's marked.  
  



End file.
